


Some kind of earthly love

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blood, Death, F/M, Gen, WWI AU, a touch of love, and a touch of hope, bittersweet memories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:19:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: WWI: They will never meet, and she will never speak his name, but he has carried the very essence of her soul with him and will continue to do so, even in death.Chapter 2 and onwards: Their soul and spirit will never fade or die. They will continue to exist - two ceaseless, searching entities - circling around the vastness of an ever expanding universe, trying, against all odds, to find one another.For Evans3





	1. fair-haired angel of the evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_Like a flower to its perfume,_

_I am bound to my vague memory of you._  

\- Pablo Neruda

 

* * *

  

_The man attacking him is ruthless—fearless—a man who seems to have been crafted for warfare first and empathy second. Each swing of his sword is made with deadly precision, cumulating in Edward’s bleeding right shoulder and bloodied calf. The thick forests of Bulgaria provide some cover but even the trees themselves cannot withstand the German solider’s onslaught for long. Branches fall like autumn leaves, some hitting Edward with clumsy, oafish indifference as he dodges heavy Baikushev pines and powerful Granit oaks. He needs to get this madman—this soldier and bloodhound who doesn’t seem entirely human—away from his troops, already swarmed on all sides by Prussian arms and their sharp steel blades._

_This is an ambush they hadn’t prepared for—not now, not after Gallipoli._

_Seeing a clearing before him, Edward raises his polished calvary blade—one he rarely uses, preferring his officer’s sword but that has been lost—in a hastily executed compound-riposte. Somehow, the German manages to deflect with blinding speed, knocking the sword from Edward’s hand and forcing him to rely on agility and ingenuity alone. He’s never been so grateful for his meticulous obsession with maps; he knows Bulgarian terrain better than anyone—including most Bulgarians. The mountainous and dangerously rugged landscape of Pirin is a far cry from the charming paintings of Sofia that Lizzy has hanging in her bedroom. Everywhere there is jagged rock, slippery moss, and uneven forest paths blocked by shadowy, ominous trees of every evil. Vines choke the air around them and the overcast sky, punctuated with slivers of pale light, is of little help._

_He is, in effect, fighting half-blind._

_Gripping a low reaching oak, Edward lifts his uninjured arm and savagely cuts an uneven coupling of vines loose. He needs cover._

_There’s no way he can defeat the machine-like monster tailing him. Not now, not in his current state._

_“Ausbeute.” A harsh, punctuated voice breaks through the stillness of the wildwood and Edward freezes, careful not to make a sound. “Hingabe und ertrag.” The voice continues and suddenly, almost in the blink of an eye, Edward finds himself restrained in a chokehold and there is a blood soaked briquet pressed against his throat._

_He forces himself still._

_“Give up.” The man—a colonel Edward realizes, recognizing the insignia on his collar—repeats in heavily accented English._

German, _Edward thinks,_ as I suspected. _“As an officer of the British infantry, I cannot oblige by your demands.” He grits out before sliding the emergency kukri knife from his right sleeve._

_He needs to buy time. “Your men ambushed us.”_

_“On my orders.”_

_For a moment, Edward wonders if this man has even been formally trained in the courtesies of warfare. “You can’t ambush your adversary during a detente.” He says appalled—or was this simply the German way? A gallantry forgotten by the Central Powers?_

_“You were defeated.” The man continues with an expression of complete apathy. As if he were not human._

_As if he felt nothing._

_It angers some part of Edward, the aristocratic, old world marquess’s son, and in the blink of an eye (but without much finesse) Edward hastily drives the spare knife into what he believes is the German colonel’s side. No sound escapes the foreign solider but the sword lowers, just half an inch, allowing Edward to pivot his way to freedom before turning around. The man staggers a few feet back before he gingerly tugs the kukri from his right side._

_A blossom of red begins to bloom._

_This time, when he attacks, Edward is ready—coulé, extension, parry, lunge, extension—he manages to slice open his adversary’s chest, watching as more blood soaks through the stone-grey uniform._

_Yet finality does not seem to be in the other man’s nature. Just as quickly as he’s fallen, he rises again, unleashing a barrage of attacks that leave Edward half-conscious, blood choking his throat. The German approaches him, face impassive and cold. He kicks the calvary sword from Edward’s reach, ready to deal the final blow, before suddenly—_

_He stops._

_His sword hangs mid-air but his gaze focuses on a small colored photograph lying on the forest floor. It only takes Edward half a second to realize where the photograph had come from._

_It’s Lizzy, just a few days before her seventeenth birthday. She’s dressed in a gauzy pink gown, cherry blossoms in her hair, and a lovely, sweet smile on her pretty face. Her skin is cream and roses, her eyes are bright and lively, and in her arms she holds a bouquet of white camellias. It’s an image of spring—an image of hope and joy and everything Edward seeks to protect from the invading Austro-German forces._

_It’s also the image that stops this merciless ambusher short, binding his curiosity for half a second._

_It’s in that half second that Edward hears the whistling of a grenade and sees the blood smeared face of Rupert Cheslock fifteen feet away._

 

* * *

 

In his later years, following the devastating defeat of the German Empire and the destruction of their kaiser’s throne, Colonel Levi Ackerman was stripped of all rank, title, and command. Forced to stand before a foreign tribunal, head held high and no discernible expression on his indecipherable face. Not a shred of emotion, not even when they ordered for his death sentence to be carried out. This _creature,_ the heads of government decried, had cut down entire battalions, devastated nations, and executed faithful generals of the Allied offensive. Death was the only mercy a _thing_ like him deserved. 

They spat phenomenal cries of hatred but those clamorous curses fell on deaf ears. He had braved the Allied prison cells—the cramped, filthy cages of concrete and metal bars where men shat, ate, and slept in a manner more grotesque than hell itself. He’d had his hands tied behind his back, marched along the streets of a triumphant London before he and his comrades were put back on the ship they once commanded. Drenched with sweat from the midday sun, the British officers mocked their fallen foes, spilling decanters of water on the ship floor. _Drink!_ They would laugh as they herded them back below deck, _where is your proud kaiser now? Headless, dumb, and blind—_

It was pitiful, the former colonel sneered, feeling a strange melange of disgust and inarticulate sympathy when the younger soldiers would fall to their knees, the fire in their throats burning, deaf to the uproarious laughter of the British guard as they drank pooled puddles of spilt water. Some of his former companions—commodores, lieutenants, captains, and a wounded general—marveled at Levi’s own self-restraint. But he knew better.

The thirst for drink—for sustenance and rest and mercy—would never befall them and the degradation of having to _beg_ was merely an Allied show. _The English,_ Levi sneered, _theatrical till the end._

( _In his righthand pocket, the picture of **her** burns. He doesn't know why he’s held onto it. He doesn't even know her, could only guess her name and age._ )

He had lost much—so much—fighting the kaiser’s war and in the end, he—the man who had cut down entire regiments with a swing of his sword, his eyes cold and unforgiving as strange men begged for their lives in unfamiliar tongues, holding up crosses and photographs as he killed them all. Their hypocrisy would have been laughable had it not been so pitiful. What was to stop them from inflicting the same sentence on the soldiers Levi commanded? The same soldiers he’d trained, fought, and overseen—who sat after dark in their godforsaken trenches, reminiscing and thinking, breathing stories in the air.

He was called the Reich's strongest but that was a lie. He could do nothing to stop the humiliation, degradation, and awe-inspiring loss of the only country he ever dared call home. He could not stymie the brutal poverty his men suffered under—could not help when they devolved into animals, snatching bits of stale bread off the filthy ground of whatever pigsty their captors would throw them into. 

It was hell all over again. 

( _But then the moon rises while he's leaning against the wooden sty and the stars illuminate her image. She is a total contrast to the starvation and filth he has known all his life. His hands are careful when he handles the picture and he doesn't find it the least bit strange how it's the cleanest thing he has on him. Her smile is warm—warmer than anything he's ever known—and there is a kindness, a sunlit kindness, in her luminous green eyes and it's so close to what Levi imagines home must feel like._ )

 

Months ago, that girl—the female solider who’d cut her hair and disguised her gender—had worn that ridiculous red scarf around her neck and kept it on, even under the July sun with sweat beading down her brow. She said the scarf meant hope—hope for what, Levi didn’t know. Never bothered to ask. She was capable and silent and he had men dying of gangrene and septicemia to worry about.

But he remembered how Eren Jaeger screamed when the French calvary came, after the German defeat became an inevitable finality. They’d cut the boy’s right arm clean off as punishment for defiance that stupid, _impulsive,_ insubordinate brat—

 

Levi closes his eyes.

It wouldn’t be long now—his execution would be quick.

Death by firing squad.

He went through the entirety of the war not knowing what Mikasa Ackerman meant until he was forced on his knees by a wary French guard and death marches were all that existed. When the soles of his feet bled as bayonets prodded their backs, when his vision blurred and his hands could no longer respond to the environment around him—

He thought of _her._

An amaranth rose, blossoming in the spring. She was humanity’s finest and he knew nothing about her. She was English and he was German and she had somehow become the focal point of his rapidly shrinking world as the cruelties of war re-opened festering wounds and the memory of decay began to creep into his weary bones.

(He thinks of _her,_ and smiles.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ausbeute = yield 
> 
> \- Hingabe und ertrag = surrender and yield 
> 
> A/N: A very, very delayed gift for the wonderful Evans3—so glad to have met you and absolutely delighted that you've introduced me to the wonderful world of crack!shipping XD cheers!


	2. scatter thy silver dew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: In which Elizabeth Midford is mercilessly thrown into the AoT world. Levi is the one who finds her.

“Tch.” _As I suspected._ Levi drops the girl’s hand and returns to his stance by the window, grey eyes sharp with a sense of curious disdain. _She’s never done a day’s work in her life._ From the heavy silk of her dress to the delicate softness of her lily-white hands, the girl—Elizabeth—was as high class as they came, with her pretty manners and bright smiles and total ignorance of the world’s cruelties. Here she was, a vessel of refinement who held, without a doubt, utter contempt for the situation she was in.

Levi knew firsthand the lies that could be conjured when people were desperate to save their hides. He didn’t doubt this girl’s bright laughter and polite words were just a facade to get them to help her get home. Wherever _that_ was.

“Is something the matter?” She asks and he hates how kind she sounds—how sweet and innocent. Like a fucking cloud on a summer’s day.

Or were clouds bad things on a summer’s day? What were considered ‘nice’ things? Daffodils? Less bloodshed? An expedition that held fewer than five casualties?

“Do you want to get home?” He inquires apathetically, shoving aside inane thoughts of sunshine and clouds and _daffodils._

“Oh—yes,” her doe-eyes were wide with earnest apprehension, “very much so.”

_Eager little brat._

“Fine.” His tone is flat as he moves to stand directly in front of her. Against the bare hospital walls and ragged military blankets, this strange unearthly girl looks like half a dream.

 _Bullshit._ That harsh, cynical reminder hisses, hurling Levi back down to reality. She’s just like the rest of them—spoiled, selfish, and incapable of taking care of herself. “What can you do?”

At that question she frowns, looking confused and a little startled. Levi studies the way her rosy pale skin seems to glow against the afternoon sun, how her lips look so soft—as if she’d never said a harsh word to anyone. _Because she never needed to._ The rational part of his mind cut in snidely and Levi is vaguely annoyed by that comment. She is far too elegant to be here, in this walled hell they were trapped in.

 _So where was she from?_ Was she a member of the royal family? A cousin? A lord’s daughter?

“I…I—“ she hesitates, unsure of what to say, looking to _Levi_ for answers. “Well, I’m not very sure what you mean.” She finally admits, looking more confused than afraid.

“Your skills.” He replies brusquely, seated behind his ebony desk.

He quirks a brow, expression as blank and cold as the winter sun.

For a second, he thinks she’s going to bolt out of the room. Bolt or cry or demand he take her home _immediately_ because pretty little girls like her can’t survive in camps like these—

But the thought is half-formed, still incomplete in the captain’s mind when her sea-glass eyes harden to pure emerald. She lifts her chin, hands clasped in front of her as if she were holding back raw strength by the lace of her glove…

“I can do anything you ask of me, sir.” She replies firmly. “My knowledge of formal warfare is limited but I’m a quick study, captain, I promise. My father is the Head of the Order of the British Knights and my mother—“ she stumbles, as if contemplating what to truly say before boldness overtakes her and she looks him right in the eye before declaring, “my mother is like no other. She is indomitable.” Her voice is strong—as strong and swift as the Baltic Sea.

It catches Levi off guard and it’s only through years of practiced repose that he keeps his stoic expression in place.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He throws a data folder at her, pleased when she catches it with little difficulty. “You’ll work for your freedom.”

“Of course.” She returns graciously, not at all discouraged by his harsh words or the fact that he’s just throw her on the path of hell. “I’m a competent medic but I’m sure I can improve on the job—“

“I won’t be wasting you in the medic’s ward.”

“But—“

“You’ll be on the field with us.” _With me._

Her eyes, luminous as sea glass, grow to a comical size. “Surely it isn’t _proper_ for—“

“You begin training in half an hour.” His eyes flicker over her thin white gown—over the fanciful lace and pure-white silk. “Get dressed. You’ll report to and train alongside Braus. See Arlet if you have any questions.” He raises his head, allowing emerald green to meet slate grey.

He notices how she squares her shoulders imperceptibly, standing that much straighter and he wonders how she’s managed so long without giving herself away.

 _She’s a seasoned fighter,_ he realizes. _She knows how to handle a blade._

Levi takes in her golden hair, her meringue pale skin, her rose bloom mouth.

He takes in the curve of her neck, her stiff posture, how her slim muscles are coiled—ready to spring to action.

_She knows how to die._

He nods his head.

She frowns. “Is that all?”

“No. If you have further questions, ask Arlet.”

He can see she wants to say more—wants to refute his blunt discourtesy but she bites her tongue and nods her head. “Yes, sir.”

He knows it’s cruel—vastly cruel—to force a lady of her stature (trained or not) to fight in the muck with the rest of them. She’s too clean—her eyes are too bright, her smiles too willing. She hasn’t seen death and tragedy as they have. She’s never known repression or hunger or desperation. The desire to simply _be._

Outside, the lemon-yellow sun grows hazy with orange-crimson, signaling the setting of the sun and the end of another day. In front of him, the girl agonizes, torn between hope and anguish as she tries her best to swallow the barrage of questions on the tip of her tongue.

“When might you be able to send me home?” Curiosity wins.

“When we figure out where you’re from.”

“England.” Her reply is immediate. “Midford Castle in the marquessate of Scotney, near the port of Harwich.”

“Done.”

He has no idea where her home is. Knows there’s a very good chance she’ll never _see_ home again but she is strong. Strong and capable, unflinching in the face of danger. This magnolia girl with her curls and courtesies hadn’t simply stumbled upon a dead titan.

 _It was her._ He realizes, still looking at this sunlit girl, unable to turn away because the fallen 3DM equipment he found at her feet had not been hers. However she arrived—whether by chance, kidnapping, or something else—she had seen the titans in all their grotesque glory and, with the courage (or stupidity) of a lion, had rushed forth with gear procured from the body of a fallen solider, slicing flesh and bone until Levi spotted her, a bloom of angelic white against a field of carmine blood.

“Dismissed.” He returns to his paperwork until he hears her soft footsteps fade and the door close.

He is not prepared to admit anything more than what he has already said.

But even fools can see that is she is beautiful. Beautiful and strangely familiar as if somewhere, eons ago, he knew her. Cared for her. Perhaps even—

 _Bullshit._ His mind sneers. _Complete and utter bullshit. She’ll die within the hour and_ ** _you’ll_** _be presiding over her corpse. Don’t you dare think otherwise._

Yet even with these harsh sentiments slicing across his mind’s eye, he can’t shake the feeling that he knows her. It is _impossible,_ he _knows_ that, but her face—the warmth of her smile, those eyes the color of sea glass, the way she moves so deliberately and gracefully, as if she were engaged in a dance with the summer sun. It’s the reason why he saved her, why he swung down to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her from the serrated limbs piled high around her.

He thinks in another life she would have never known bloodshed like this. She would have been kept safe and hidden while soldiers like him died protecting dreams like her.

_A gauzy pink gown. Cherry blossoms in her hair. A photograph taken in the month of spring._

_Death marches. Flayed skin. Hunger. Thirst. Exhaustion. The humiliation of defeat, of being the losing side—_

_Pig styes and filth, soldiers with streaked faces clinging to wooden posts._

_A photograph, the cleanest thing he has on him, tucked safely in his breast coat pocket._

A sharp, familiar shiver runs down Levi’s spine. He swears he can feel the ghost of a past life haunting him, watching over him, annoyed and frustrated because he has waited his whole life to see _her_ again.

_Elizabeth._

 

After, when his mouth his filled with cold tea, does he realize the sun has long since set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have no idea where this came from because I sincerely did not plan on adding additional chapters to this XD


End file.
